


For A Good Time, Call

by ellydash



Category: Bomb Girls
Genre: Closeted Character, F/F, Female Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1952, and thanks to an unexpected encounter over gloves in Eaton’s Department Store, Vera Burr sees an old friend—maybe for the first time. [Vera and Kate friendship; references to Kate/Betty.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	For A Good Time, Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocowardsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocowardsoul/gifts).



> Completed before the finale aired, so let's just call this canon compatible through "Kings and Pawns" (2x11). Many thanks to [sceptick](http://sceptick.tumblr.com) for her immensely helpful feedback on an earlier draft.

The woman peering over the fanned splay of gray and butter gloves has a perfectly coiffed head of hair beneath her pillbox hat. What stops Vera dead in her tracks isn’t the hat—admittedly spiffy—but the colour of that hair. Normally she doesn’t let herself stare at strangers in public, especially not in the middle of Eaton’s, the kind of swanky store that makes Vera want to remember her manners. There’s something about this woman’s hair, though, that rings a bell, and Vera pauses on the walkway between Accessories and Cosmetics, needing to see a face that'll confirm or deny her growing suspicions.

She waits patiently, and then the woman glances up, gazing in the direction of the perfume counter. Vera’s seized with instantaneous recognition.

“Well, hot dog!” she exclaims. “It _is_ Kate Andrews!”

The words carry easily. Kate's gaze locks on Vera for the first time, and her eyes widen instantly. For a moment, Vera has the strange sense that she’s torn away some sort of layer between Kate and the rest of Eaton’s, some invisible divide that Kate wanted kept firmly in place. Uncertainty flares up hot in her stomach, and she wonders if she should’ve said anything at all.

“Oh!” Kate presses a flat hand between her breasts. “Vera! Hello.” She swallows visibly, and when she speaks again there’s more warmth in her voice. “It’s so wonderful to run into you like this. Please excuse me, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew today, let alone someone from Vic Mu! I’m just a bit startled.”

“Like a little red deer,” Vera teases, taking the necessary few steps towards the glove display to join Kate. “You know, stranger, for a second there I thought you were about to turn tail and run away from me.”

“Oh, no. No, I'd never do that. It’s just—golly, no one’s called me Kate Andrews in years.”

Of course. What a silly slip for Vera to make, using Kate’s maiden name when she’s been Kate Buchinsky since—she strains to pick out the right date—spring of ‘43? They’d thrown the war wedding to end all war weddings for Kate and Ivan at the Witham manor, improvising as best they could with rationing still going strong. Gladys had arranged absolutely everything, delegating tasks to a small army of Vic Mu girls, and all the while pretending not to hear Kate’s pleas for Gladys not to go to so much trouble on her behalf.

Sure, Vera remembers Kate and Ivan’s wedding. Kate, stunning in an altered wedding gown and veil on loan from Mrs. Witham. Ivan, clean-shaven and brimming with pride. The beautiful spread and that tiered plummy cake. She’d been a bridesmaid, standing between Betty and Gladys, and even though Vera remembers the dress and Ivan and the cake and the way it threatened to rain but didn’t, what sticks out most when she thinks about that day is the memory of Betty’s hand in hers. Vera had reached over and squeezed it quickly during the service while Kate said her vows, still looking straight ahead as if grabbing Betty’s hand was an accident. Like she didn’t know Betty might need a squeeze.

Betty hadn’t hesitated. She’d squeezed right back.

The wedding's one of the last clear recollections Vera has of Kate, who’d left Vic Mu shortly thereafter for her in-laws’ home in Winnipeg. A glowing Kate in Adele Witham’s dress, all smiles in the direction of her new husband, eager to run across the threshold of her new life.

“Right, Mrs. Buchinsky,” Vera says, forcing herself back to the present. “I guess I can’t help but think of you as Kate Andrews. So how’s married life been treating you? You sure look swell.”

It’s true, Kate looks good. Smart and immaculately turned out, if a little matronly in that full-skirted burgundy dress. Rationing’s been over for more than six years, but Vera still isn’t completely used to postwar fashions. All that fabric! Kate’s skirt alone could’ve made two. Not that Vera’s morally opposed to indulging—heaven knows she loves buying her seasonal new hats—but the long years of rationing still make full skirts seem deliciously decadent.

“Everything’s just wonderful. Ivan and I have a daughter now. A little girl, she’s four. Everyone says she looks exactly like her father. Patricia Diane. Would you like to see a picture?”

Before Vera can get out the agreement behind her lips, Kate’s unfastening the clasp on her dainty purse.

“Patsy,” she says, holding out the photo to Vera. “That’s what we call her. I figure she can go by Pat or Patricia when she’s older if she likes.”

It’s a picture of Kate and her daughter: Kate in round, white-framed sunglasses and a summer dress sitting on a porch, the chubby little girl perched on her lap, dark, straight hair in pigtails on either side of her head. The child doesn’t look like Kate, that much is true, but Vera can’t remember Ivan’s face very well. It’s been—how long, eight years?—since she’s seen him, and honestly, she’d never spent much time paying attention in the first place. The kid sure is a real doll, though, and she says so gladly to Kate. No exaggeration there. All chubby cheeks and broad, unresisting smile.

Kate’s expression softens visibly, and she reaches out again for the photo when Vera hands it to her. “Thank you,” she says, tucking it back in her purse. “I’m just in town for the day to do some shopping. Patsy's with Elizabeth—Ivan’s mother, she looks after Patsy when I’ve got errands to run. Goodness, listen to me go on about myself. How have you been, Vera? It’s been ages. Are you—?” A quick flick of her eyes down at Vera’s hands. “You haven’t—?”

“Married?” Vera knows exactly what that glance means, having experienced it with boring regularity for the last decade, give or take a few years. She’s no dummy, and there’s no point in pretending just to let Kate come up with the word. “No, not me. Still up for grabs.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

That’s a phrase Vera normally can't stand anywhere near her marital status, but in Kate’s mouth it rings with sincerity and genuine concern, not the simpering superiority she's used to hearing. As if Kate had spared more than a few idle thoughts about her old friend over the years, hoping Vera would find—what? Not a ring, not necessarily, but a little comfort and company. Someone Vera might want to keep around.

Another memory nudges quietly at Vera: the feeling of Kate's firm hand rubbing Vera's back, up and down, up and down. She’d cried into Kate’s scratchy quilt until her vision went gray, on that long bad night in early '43 after Marco's arrest. Kate hadn’t asked Vera to talk about it. Vera appreciated that, as much as she could appreciate anything at that point. Gladys was no good to her just then, Gladys and her relentless optimism like a hangnail you couldn’t clip, reassuring Vera that of _course_ the judge would understand Marco was just defending his mother. Vera didn't want to fall apart on a strained smile. She’d needed a hand on her back she couldn’t see. She’d needed silence.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she says lightly. “After all, I don’t see a darned reason why I should commit to one dish when I’m having so much fun browsing the buffet!”

To Vera’s surprise, Kate laughs out loud with no hesitation. 

“Oh, I’ve really missed you, Vera,” she exclaims, "I've missed you so much," and then, hastily, like she wants to get it all out before she stops herself, “Look, do you have to rush off? I’d love to buy you a cup of tea, if you’ve got the time. The restaurant on the seventh floor is really supposed to be something else.”

Vera’s a little dazed by all of this. Kate, here smack in the middle of Eaton’s, in the middle of Vera’s postwar life, like nothing was stopping her all along from walking right into it. Kate Andrews—no, Mrs. Ivan Buchinsky—seeming more and more familiar the longer they chat. She’s a bit older, sure, but her eyes are still exactly the same. Large and incomprehensible, the two centerpieces in a pretty mask of smooth politeness.

Well, it’s Saturday. Vera’s got nowhere to be and nothing that sounds better than reminiscing over old times with an old friend.

“Two cups of tea,” she says, enjoying the quick grin her words earn. “But I won’t stand for any of that chamomile nonsense, mind you."

Kate’s playful salute is perfect and precise, her hand and wrist a straight line. “Earl Gray. No milk and a twist of lemon.”

Surprised, Vera nods.

Kate tells her, “I haven’t forgotten. I remember all of it.”

_____________

  
The Round Room restaurant is beautiful in a way that makes Vera think it isn’t meant for working girls like her. There’s thick drapery lining the wide windows at one side of the room, the long fabric creamy and opulent. The ceiling looms high above them, three concentric, recessed circles framing a flat, modern, yellow chandelier above an ornate Lalique fountain, lit from beneath. There are few enough tables to hint artfully at the restaurant’s success; clearly no one’s desperate to fill the floor with paying customers. The linen tablecloths are bleached whiter than bone, with crisp ironed lines bisecting each draped side. Vera imagines accidentally placing her tea cup on top of one of those tablecloths, missing the saucer entirely and making an permanent, undeniable dark ring.

It’s a bit late for tea, far too early for a fashionable supper, and so the Round Room is graced with only a few other patrons. They’re shown quickly to a table by the window. Vera gazes out onto the busy city streets below as the partially deferential maître d’hôtel—only _partially_ deferential; he must’ve realized that Vera's dress is homemade—pushes in the chair beneath her. There’s at least four construction projects she can see from her limited view, including the new subway everyone’s so bonkers for. Toronto’s growing fast, glutted on the postwar influx of new immigration and eager labor.

“So!” Kate says brightly, adjusting her place setting even though it’s already perfectly aligned. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Vera stares at her, somewhat put off by the stilted phrasing. It matches the surroundings, not Vera. Not Kate, either, from what Vera remembers. “For Pete’s sake, Kate, it’s me. Don't play the charming housewife. I’ve seen you—“ She lowers her voice. The maître d’hôtel is still close by. “I’ve seen you in your unmentionables. I've seen you drunk on port and howling at the stars. I taught you how to dance burlesque." She can't help but smile, remembering Kate's clumsy, sweet enthusiasm during Vera's slapdash lessons. "Honey, you're not talking to some high-hat matron. We’ll have a lot more fun here if we forget about standing on ceremony, trust me.”

Kate's cheeks redden, and she tucks her hands in her lap, glancing down and then up at Vera again. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she protests. “Honestly. It’s just that I came here thinking I’d pick up some shirts for Ivan and maybe treat myself with a new pair of gloves. And then you said my name from across the floor. It was like you were talking to someone else until I realized who you were. Do you know, I almost told you that you had the wrong person?”

She seems uncomfortable, as though the confession is almost too ridiculous to even admit, but Vera doesn’t see any reason Kate should be embarrassed. She has a feeling that if the situation was reversed—if Kate had seen her first and called out to her—that Vera would’ve been similarly confused, even though Vera’s name hasn’t changed. Vic Mu seems like another lifetime. Visits and lunches with the girls were frequent in the first year or two after the war ended and the factory closed; they’d promised each other solemnly to stay in touch. And she had, for a while, with Betty and Gladys and one or two of the others. Even with Carol Demers, that snobby so-and-so, whom Vera had grown to reluctantly appreciate in spite of her—well, in spite of _her_.

But Gladys had married and Betty had—not married, of course she hadn’t, but she’d found a good friend to keep her company, and so visits and lunches grew less frequent, slipping off Vera’s social calendar with greater regularity. They’re infrequent enough that she’s come to think of her time at the factory as its own discrete slice of her life, on a separate shelf of its own: During The War. Those years aren’t bone familiar anymore, they’re snatches of something past, moments that come to her occasionally in quick pulses of memory. The monotony of assembly lines and the sharp, pungent stench of amatol in her hair and skin. The yellowing of her fingernail beds, still slightly discoloured a decade after she’d left the factory floor. The smell of pencil shavings at her office desk upstairs and Mr. Akins’s chesty coughs, rattling her concentration. Marco’s rich, strong pomade sticking to her palms. The raised, angry web of white scars knitted over her temple and forehead. Doing and redoing and redoing and redoing her hair in those first months after the accident, praying for it to stay in place just long enough to get through the day.

Vera’s lipstick was louder in those days. Stoplight red, bright enough to distract from other parts of her face.

“Don't worry about it for a second," she says. "I was surprised too. So, tell me more about you. You’re married to Ivan, of course, and you’ve got this adorable little girl. What else has Kate Buchinsky been up to? Are you back in Toronto, or are you just visiting?”

“There’s not much to tell, really.” Her fingers spread out briefly across the white tablecloth before she reclaims her hands, tucking them back into her lap. “We’re living out in Mississauga now, we moved there from Winnipeg last year.” ( _A year? So close, and you never phoned or wrote any of us?_ Vera doesn’t say.) “We’ve got a house I’ve fixed up. Nothing too grand, of course, but it suits our family just fine. Ivan’s mother came out with us, since his dad’s passed. She keeps Patsy and me company. It’s nice having someone else there during the day.”

“And Ivan?” Vera asks politely.

“Working for a civil engineering company. The office is walking distance from the house, so he’s home every night in time for dinner. You should see Ivan with Patsy, he’s very attentive. It’s wonderful.”

There’s nothing wrong with the words, but something’s slightly off about the tone. It’s curiously flat, as if Kate’s repeating a series of lines she’s learned for a play. Vera wonders if Kate even hears herself. Probably not.

“I hope you still sing,” she says, suspecting the answer won’t be what she wants to hear. “You’ve got the pipes of an angel, you know. I used to be wildly jealous. Me, I've never been able to carry a tune in a bucket.”

Kate inclines her head. “Sometimes. Well, it’s really just to Patsy, when we’re alone. Lullabies and some nursery songs. She likes hearing me.”

The thought of Kate’s lovely, lush voice kept inside four pastel walls with no one but a small child to appreciate it makes sadness heave suddenly inside Vera.

“I don’t have the time for performing on stage anymore.” There’s a slight, sharp edge of defensiveness in Kate’s tone.

Vera says, masking her feelings as best she can to cheer up both of them, “I’m just glad to hear the kid’s got good taste.”

They study the slim menus in mutually agreed silence, cream-coloured to match the window drapes and written in a painfully fine script. Without looking more than a few inches to the side of her menu, Vera can see the opening of Kate’s three-quarter burgundy sleeve partly up her forearm, the dark recesses of it swallowing her skin. Kate’s gripping the menu tightly, indenting the paper until it’s creasing.

With a quick wave of her fingers, Vera gestures towards the lurking waiter, peering at them from a respectable distance.

“You know what? We’re here, we’re in the city—let’s indulge ourselves for once,” Kate says suddenly, putting down her menu as the waiter approaches. “Let me order?”

“Sure, but—”

“Pardon me, ladies,” the waiter says, standing in front of them with impeccable posture and a chin pointed straight. “How are we this afternoon? Have we decided?”

“Yes, I’d like to order the Queen’s tea service for two,” Kate intones, with a gesture towards the delicate menu. Vera's startled. Kate's ordering the most expensive service? “With extra clotted cream and strawberries, please. My friend and I are celebrating our reunion.” She smiles across the table at Vera, who smiles back, touched. _My friend_. She’s so glad Kate still thinks of her that way.

The Round Room restaurant offers a wide selection of tea sandwiches, the waiter informs them, all prepared to order by a fine chef. Would madam—this directed towards Kate—be interested in ordering an assortment of salmon and capers, egg salad, ham and mustard, watercress, and cucumber?

Madam would, it turns out. “And a pot of Earl Gray, please, with extra-hot water and a few slices of lemon.”

The waiter half-bows and takes his leave.

“Kate!” Vera exclaims under her breath, once he’s far enough away not to overhear. “Good gravy, that service is four dollars per person! Tea and biscuits would’ve been plenty.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” Kate says, her eyes sparkling. “It was a wild impulse, I just went with it. Gosh, that felt so indulgent.” She sits back in her chair. “Of course you're going to let me treat you, Vera.”

“Kate, I can pay for myself, you know. I’ve got a job. A good one.”

“Of course you do and of course you could. That has nothing to do with this. Please, I’d like to treat you. It’ll make me happy. Don't say no.”

Vera gives in reluctantly, because it’s easier—that Kate Andrews always was a stubborn little goose underneath her demure exterior—and she’s rewarded with a satisfied nod.

“Excellent,” Kate says. “Now, I want to hear all about this good job of yours. Is it office work? You were always so impressive at Vic Mu, the way you handled Mr. Akins and Carol and all those awful men with your confidence and poise. I think I was a little in awe of you back then, to be honest. No, I _know_ I was in awe of you.”

“Is that how it seemed?” Vera thinks back. She certainly doesn’t remember feeling confident, only the terrible, pressing need to appear competent. Particularly in those early days when all that stood between the office and the horrors of the factory floor was her ability to do her job well. Well, if Kate remembers her as confident, she’d certainly done something right.

Briefly, she sketches in her post-Vic Mu life for Kate, explaining that she’d taught herself bookkeeping while at the factory to keep herself valuable to Mr. Akins. She’d taken those skills with her; found good work after the war at a furrier’s not four blocks from Eaton’s. There’s enough money in it for Vera to live on her own in a small apartment and set a little aside each month for savings. “They like me there,” Vera tells Kate, "and I like them. I feel like I’m making a difference.”

The difference is for herself as well as for the company. She’d describe to Kate, if she could find the right words to do it, how wonderfully satisfying it feels to tally two columns and reconcile them. Vera knows that she’s done her job correctly if the numbers match at the end of the register. It’s right there in black and white. No one can see her ledgers as any different than what they are.

The other girls at Morris & Sons are sweet, if a bit young, most of them a few years out of high school. Vera sees them socially when she can, smiling over white wine spritzers at their breathless stories, offering some of her own when she’s asked, nearly always censoring herself from saying too much. She still doesn’t lack for eager male company on her own time, and when Kate inquires delicately as to whether Vera’s currently seeing anyone, she answers yes without elaborating.

“Anyone special?”

“Not in particular.” That isn’t exactly true. There’s one man she’s drawn to over the others, a kind, tow-headed insurance salesman who doesn't seem intimidated by anything Vera has to offer. He makes her laugh more than anyone has since—well, since Marco. No, she won't mention Richard to Kate. They’ve only been out three times, and it’s still early days. If she brings him up, that’s admitting she has hopes. Those woods are dangerous.

“It must be so much effort.” Then, biting her lower lip briefly, “What I mean is, I don’t think I understand. I never did.”

Vera’s confused. “You know what it’s like, don’t you? You were single yourself for a while when we were at Vic Mu. Don't tell me you've forgotten.”

“No, I mean why you’d—see so many people like that, like you do. Men. _Casually_.”

“Are you asking me why I sleep around?” Vera asks bluntly.

“Vera! Hush, not so loudly. Fine, yes, I suppose that’s what I’m asking. Look, you really don’t have to answer me—”

Right on cue, the waiter returns with their Earl Gray, and Kate closes her mouth on a protest as he steps up to their table, evidently wanting to preserve their respectability. There’s a loud silence while he sets up their cups and saucers.

“I don’t mind you asking,” Vera says, once the waiter’s left them again. It’s an odd question but an honest one, she supposes. “I guess it's not all that different from why you like to sing. It feels good to me. I’m good _at_ it.”

“But that comparison doesn’t work. It—“ In a very low voice. “Being with someone in that way, it’s nothing like singing. I can sing alone—I don’t need anyone to hear me.”

Vera stares at Kate, waiting for the light to go on, until—it takes about seven seconds—Kate gasps. “Vera _Burr_ ,” she says, clearly scandalized, but there’s more than a hint of delight in it, too. “You _never_. You _haven’t_.”

“Let’s just put it this way,” Vera says, leaning in slightly. She drops Kate a slow wink. “Given the choice, I’d rather sing with others, but I sure as heck don’t mind singing alone every once in a while. After all, I know my own vocal cords better than anyone else.”

“I don't think I'd ever—” Kate’s speaking in a near whisper, even though they’re talking in metaphor. “Sing alone. Like that, I mean. I’d be too self-conscious. Singing with Ivan is more than enough.” A quick glance to make sure no one’s listening. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”

Something about the way Kate mentions Ivan makes Vera hesitate. She says, “Don’t you like it? Singing with him, I mean?”

Kate shrugs, taking the opportunity to reach for the teapot. The tea hasn’t steeped enough, of course, but she doesn’t seem to care. Vera remembers that Kate never minded her tea lightly flavored. _Weak_ , Gladys had called it, and Kate always said _no, the flavor’s there, you just have to try a little harder to taste it_.

“It’s fine, I suppose. I just—I never really understood why you went out looking for it so often. Talking to boys, to men, that’s one thing. All the girls did that. But you went so much further when you didn’t even need to. Those boys would’ve liked you even if you hadn’t—well, sung together.” She puts the cup to her lips, testing the temperature.

“Well, what _do_ you feel when you sing?” Vera asks her, followed by, “I'm talking about real singing now, just so we’re clear.”

There’s a hesitation long enough to fall through while Kate considers this.

“Like I’m home, I suppose. Like I’m my best self,” she says finally. “I don’t mean to say that being a mother doesn’t—I love Patsy, I _love_ being her mother, I know it’s what I was put on this earth by God to be—”

Vera waits patiently for Kate to get the justification she needs out of the way.

“But when I sing, I feel connected to something bigger. I feel so _right_.”

“It’s the same for me.” Explaining this to Kate, who’s staring at her quizzically, it’s like speaking in another language, one Vera doesn’t know her way around. She’s never been good at talking about herself in the first place, but something like this doesn’t have a translation. There’s no polite way to say that she never feels more powerful than when she’s got a man falling apart under her fingers or in her mouth; when she’s on top and happily stretched around his prick; when she tells him _this is how I want you to touch me, like this_ and he scrambles to obey without hesitation. She can’t talk about this sort of thing to Kate Andrews, not in a way that would make her understand.

“It’s just what I know, Kate,” she says finally, resorting to a toothless phrase for lack of anything better. “Like you said. It’s what feels right to me.”

Something strange and naked and decidedly outside the range of polite emotions flashes briefly on Kate’s face before retreating behind her standard smooth veneer. The teacup rises to her mouth again.

They don’t talk about the other girls until after the scones and fruit and sandwiches arrive. Not until Vera’s nibbling on her third sandwich, and even then they cycle through Gladys and Reggie and Ethel and Carol and Polly and May and Dinah, until finally, finally, Kate says, like it’s an afterthought, like it doesn’t matter, “What about Betty?”

“Still in the city,” Vera says, hoping she sounds casual. Kate won’t meet her eyes. There’s history there Vera doesn’t know, but she suspects that whatever it is, judging by Kate’s lowered lashes, it’s hard and sore even after all this time. “She had me over for supper at her house a couple of months back—you know she bought her own home.”

Kate is busy pouring herself another cup of tea. This time it’s steeped dark, far darker than Vera knows Kate likes it. “I’m so pleased for her. Betty always wanted to buy a house someday.” She blows lightly on the cup. “Does she live alone? Are there any—" The briefest hesitation, small enough that Vera isn't sure it's really there. "Roommates?”

Vera says carefully, “Yes. One. Her name's Maggie Hayes.”

Kate doesn’t ask for more details. Vera takes the opportunity to close her mouth around another bite of egg salad.

Outside, the streetlamps flicker on.

_____________

  
They resurrect dead years over their small table for more than two hours, until the Round Room is filling with fashionable dinner patrons. _Do you remember_ becomes _do you miss_ , and it’s clear that the answer, for Kate, is always yes. Not for Vera. She misses the girls and their camaraderie, of course she does. She’d never had girlfriends like that before, not true ones. But she can’t think about those war days without the old phantom pain flaring up inside and out, without the long-sutured skin on her scalp itching, the still-visible scars on her face tightening until she’s sure they must be visible from forty feet away. Or without thinking of Marco and what might’ve been if, if, if. This isn’t something she imagines Kate would want to hear, though; Kate, who’s running gladly between each relived memory like a relay race. Vera swallows the impulse to say something. She misses the girls, sure, but the past's a country she doesn't altogether mind immigrating from.

Eventually they seem to run out of memories, winding down into pauses that last longer and longer. Their plates are decorated with crumbs. The bill sits paid on the edge of the table, mutely predicting an end to the evening.

She’s about to glance at her wristwatch and make the first, reluctant statement about the increasingly late hour, when out of the blue Kate says: “Betty wanted me to be her roommate once. A long time ago.”

The words are ordinary but the tone isn’t. Vera’s suddenly alert. “Did she?”

Her question is deliberately casual, tiptoeing around the subject. Vera’s never been sure how much Kate understands about Betty, or if Kate’s been able to guess what Vera’s known for years. Betty hasn’t said a word to Vera about her inclinations, but it isn’t necessary. The girl couldn’t hide a darned thing from anyone with a little sense and worldliness who cared enough about her to pay attention. Those moon-eyed looks Betty had for Kate and that woman soldier and Maggie, who’d joined Vic Mu’s ranks towards the end of the war, after Kate left—hell, Vera knew those looks like the back of her own hand, having received more than her share from various beaus and one-night suitors. She still can’t make out why a woman would want another woman in that way, like a man, but Vera supposes there’s lots of things beyond her understanding that aren’t hurting anyone. And Betty was always a brick, anyway, the best kind of person to have around in a pinch. Whatever she is, she’s Vera’s friend first and foremost.

Kate’s pressing her hands on the tablecloth, palms down, her fingers spread wide. “I sinned,” she says slowly.

Vera sits back, stunned into momentary silence. So Kate hadn't been the innocent Vera thought her, after all. The pain pinching Kate’s white face is the answer to at least some of Vera’s questions, but now she has far more. What did Kate do? What did Betty do? What had they done together?

“Not that kind of sin,” Kate continues, as if she’s heard Vera’s thoughts. “Not outside my heart, anyway. The sin of pride. I sat in judgment on Betty like I was the one on high, as if I could decide who and what was good and what was evil. And then Ivan came around, like he’d been ordained for me. He was—” She pauses, searching for the right word. “Easier. Safer. There was a path I could walk with him, a path I thought we could walk together without looking over our shoulders. I could see it so clearly. I’m not brave like you, Vera. I couldn’t—I couldn’t choose to live a life with people staring and whispering and still hold my head up high. Not after all those years with Father where they’d point and laugh and I’d have to—” Her lips compress in a thin line before she gives up on the next word. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be burdening you with all this, it isn’t right. Especially not in public with all these people around.”

“Oh, Kate,” Vera breathes, and reaches across the table, her fingers closing over the top of Kate’s pale hand. This is what they’ve been talking around all afternoon and evening, then; this undefined, uncertain thing that Kate’s kept buried deep beneath the mask of politeness. It’s the first time Kate’s ever confided anything truly personal to Vera, let alone something big enough to make Kate blanch and tremble. The weight of it puts a lump in Vera's throat. “Trust me, honey, I’m not going to break apart from hearing anything you have to say. And no one else is listening, they’re all caught up in their own conversations. Just talk right to me. Pretend we’re alone.”

“I love Ivan.” This with a passion Vera can’t doubt. “I _do_. I love him—he gave me Patsy and a wonderful home and he’s so good to me. How could I not love him for that? But the other night, we were sitting down to supper, the four of us, Ivan and Patsy and Elizabeth and me, and Ivan smiled across the table at me and said, ‘What a lucky guy I am. I don’t think anyone could be happier than we are.’ And I realized—it was so clear, it hit me like a lightening bolt—I thought, _that's_ what it's supposed to be like. That's what I'm supposed to feel. I’ve _tried_. I’ve tried so hard, for so long, and I—This was supposed to be the easier path, Vera. Why isn’t it?”

Vera makes a wordless sound that's meant to be comforting, in lieu of an actual answer.

“Then I couldn’t help it, I imagined Betty sitting at her dinner table. Betty saying what Ivan was saying to someone else.” She inhales. “Now I know. She has a name. Maggie. I hate her, Vera. I _hate_ her. She took what I wasn't brave enough to have.”

“Sweetheart,” Vera says, low. “You’re telling me you’re not brave? And you get up every morning with all that on your shoulders? You’ve got to be the bravest person I know.”

Kate’s eyes are full and shining.

“You don’t think I’m disgusting?” she whispers, the closest she’s come to outright confessing what maybe she can’t even name.

“What I think,” Vera tells her, “is that you need a friend more than anything right now.” She squeezes Kate’s limp hand, trying to think of what to say. Is Kate—? Does Kate really—? Vera wants to know badly, wants to ask, but despite her desperate curiosity, right now doesn’t seem the time. “I’ll admit I don’t understand some of it, but it kills me to see you hurting like this. Honey, look, once I teach someone how to dance burlesque, that’s it, I’m her friend for life. There’s no going back.”

The gentle joke earns Vera a small half-smile and a sniff from Kate.

“Kate,” she continues, as earnestly as she can, “don't keep me out, okay? I can come visit you in Mississauga. You can visit me here, if you want. As long as you want. Whatever you want. I'm there. Just tell me.”

When Kate blinks, her pale eyelashes are damp and matted. “I don’t know what I want to do,” she says quietly, but it isn’t strained, and there’s a little relief in it. It occurs to Vera that Kate, who'd always been so black and white about all her decisions, might find some shelter in being uncertain for once. "I don't know what I want." 

Vera squeezes her hand again, hard, and this time, Kate squeezes back.

"That's just fine," Vera says. "You take all the time you need. I'll be here when you know."

Before they part in front of Kate’s shiny black Ford, parked on Yonge Street opposite Eaton’s, Vera writes down Kate’s telephone number on a little notepad she keeps in her purse, and makes sure to tear out a page for Kate with her own number on it. “Next time I’m buying,” she informs her, and then holds out her arms. “I'll call you soon, okay?”

Kate doesn’t hesitate, wrapping her arms around Vera and hugging her tightly. Her embrace is surprisingly long. Vera’s the one who lets go, but before she does, Kate whispers into her ear, “Not if I call you first.”

_____________

  
Back at her apartment, the first thing Vera does after removing her overcoat is to copy the piece of paper with KATE BUCHINSKY MI-3013 into her address book by the telephone. Underlining it for emphasis, she hesitates mid-pencil stroke, the entry for Gladys Witham Bayer above catching Vera’s eye. Gladys. Dear Lord, she hasn’t spoken to Gladys for—a year? Maybe more? Wonderful, outrageous, incurable Gladys, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, always trying to feed everyone else with it. Suddenly the idea of a year without Gladys in her life seems unthinkable. How could Vera go so long without talking to her? Or Betty, or Kate, any of the others?

“Oh, what the hell,” she says out loud into the quiet living room. “Stop being such a ninny, Vera Burr, and just _do_ it.”

Not letting herself second-guess the snap decision, she enters in the number, her phone click-click-clicking out each digit as she lets go of the rotary dial. There’s one long ring, two long rings, a third long ring, and then the receiver picks up with a crackle. Vera realizes she’s been holding her breath. She lets it out audibly.

The woman on the other end of the line says, “Hello? Who’s calling, please?”

“Gladys?” Vera asks, and just like that, her nerves drop away. She grins into the receiver, even though there’s no one in the room to see her. She can’t help it. “Gladys, it’s me. Vera Burr. I know it’s late, but I thought—”

“Vera!” Gladys exclaims in her ear, with wild enthusiasm so familiar and beautiful that it makes Vera’s chest ache. She hadn’t realized until just now how much she’d missed Gladys, but something old and tight inside Vera is loosening at the sound of that voice. “Hang the hour, I’m thrilled you called. It’s been so long! How’s tricks? Tell me everything, don’t leave out a morsel.”

Telling Gladys absolutely everything isn’t possible—some things are only Kate’s to tell, if she ever decides she wants to in the future—but Vera says, sitting down in her chair, “Well, you’ll never guess who I ran into today at Eaton’s,” and it feels right to her, it feels good, like singing.

**Author's Note:**

> For most of the twentieth century, [Eaton’s](http://www.blogto.com/upload/2010/04/20100410-maple-leaf-gardens.jpg) was a Canadian institution and icon: the largest and best known department retailer in the country, known for its [beautifully designed stores](http://i.imgur.com/AmgNZ7y.jpg). After a long, slow decline that began in the 1970s, it was bought out in the late 1990s by Sears Canada, and the only trace of it remaining today is in the name of the Toronto Eaton Centre a block away from the original storefront. 
> 
> The [Round Room restaurant](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/96/EatonsRoundRoom1931.JPG) at Eaton’s flagship College Street store was a jewel of Toronto’s dining community from the 1930s through the 70s. Looking down from the seventh floor in 1952, Vera might've seen [this view of the street](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BKJ1Lbe52uk/TeuF_f51_6I/AAAAAAAADW4/eYs8gU3K6tQ/s1600/eaton%2527s%2Bcollege.jpg), under construction to make room for the new subway. 
> 
> Today the Round Room survives as [an event space for hire](http://www.thecarlu.com/content/round-room).


End file.
